


Ribbons

by Senneres



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, F/M, Gift Exchange, Gift Fic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Past Trauma/Abuse, Jim Helps Molly Discover Her Self-Worth, Jim and Molly's Last Date, Molly Starts To Have A Sense of Self-Worth, Porn with Feelings, Protective Jim Moriarty, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, While Still Being Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17295077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senneres/pseuds/Senneres
Summary: 'The night Molly saw the ribbons was the last date she ever had with Jim from IT...'





	Ribbons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Iridogorgia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iridogorgia/gifts).



> My first ever Molliarty fic.
> 
> (The prompt was Molly and Jim and a Candy-Cane, I'm sorry this became something probably way more serious than the original prompt would suggest to the average person, and I brush on the candycane part only in passing and... I'm sorry)

The night Molly saw the ribbons was the last date she ever had with Jim from IT.

He’d wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulders as they’d left the restaurant, pressing a kiss to her neck. She'd beamed back at him, flushed with delight, as they'd walked together down the steps and out onto the London street.

It had been one of their most romantic dates – candlelight, a string quartet, a super-posh place that Molly knew usually took at least two months on a waiting list to even get reservations for... though it was a little odd. Because she hadn't even been dating Jim that long. 

Molly wondered if maybe he'd slipped a whole stack of cash to the maître d' to get the table for two... but that didn't seem likely either. Molly doubted Jim had _that_ kind of cash available. She certainly didn't know how he could afford a high-end restaurant at all on the pay of an IT Tech, no matter how good he was at his job.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” he’d teased when she’d asked how on earth he’d managed to do it.

So she didn't.

And really, it had been one of the most wonderful dinners Molly could ever remember having.

“No one’s ever done this kind of thing for me before,” she’d confided in awe once they’d been seated.

“What, fed you?” He joked.

Molly couldn’t answer his light-heartedness the way she’d wished.

The smooth courtesy of the restaurant staff, the unmistakable sophistication of the other diners, the delicate strains of a cello beginning a piece she recognised, _On The Nature Of Daylight,_ from one of her favourite movies ever...

The whole thing had just suddenly overwhelmed her.

She hadn’t known what to do with her hands. Everything had looked so lovely, so perfect, so _pristine_ , that she didn't feel like she should touch anything, and she’d stammered out something – she had no idea what – before finally clasping her hands nervously in her lap.

“Molly,” Jim’s voice had been part exasperated, part amused.

“I – I never – I mean, I just –” Molly couldn’t look at him, “I’m just not the kind of girl people take anywhere, you know, fancy.”

And he’d reached across the table then, until she’d placed a hand in his, until she’d looked at him.

“You don’t have to accept that Molly,” he’d said matter-of-factly. “You don’t have to accept anything you don’t want to. I don’t.”

Jim had given her a smile then, and it wasn't his usual shy-but-adorable one that made him tilt his head away. No, for one instant it'd been a sharp smile, a smile of blades and angles, a smile full of things Molly wasn't sure she wanted to name. It made him look reckless, off-kilter even. Molly felt unbalanced.

"I – I suppose not..." She agreed.

After dinner, they’d drifted down towards the south bank of the Thames together.

Three cocktails with dessert had Molly curving an arm around his waist, sliding a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. It was something she did whenever she was tipsy, and it always made him raise an eyebrow, before giving her a naughty little smirk that would make her giggle.

“That was the most I think I’ve ever eaten,” she sighed, burrowing happily into his side. “I think I ate too much…”

“You? Never in a million years.” He murmured. “You need to care for yourself more, you hardly eat enough as it is.”

Molly bit her tongue from disagreeing. Half because he was right. Before they’d started dating, she _hadn't_ cared about herself enough. It only took three days with Jim to re-introduce Molly to what ‘care’ felt like.

Working long hours at the morgue, she would often forget to eat; just drink cup after cup of the bitter hospital canteen coffee to keep herself going, before tiredly stumbling through her front door in a barely functional state.

Toby, her cat, would glare at her in high dudgeon on the nights she was particularly late.

Eventually, Toby would relent; stalking close enough for her to show fealty towards him with a “Sorry, darling,” and a gentle stroke along his fluffy body, before he would turn away to sniff daintily at the food she placed in his bowl.

But before Jim, Molly had almost lost all desire to bother taking care of herself. Because what did it matter? No one noticed anyway, when she tried to look nice. Correction, _Sherlock_ never noticed when she tried to look nice. Or if he did notice, it was to say something blunt, or give a backhanded kind of compliment that hurt more than it gratified.

No, it was nice to have someone who noticed her. Nice to have someone who appreciated her in a sincere and honest way. Nice to have someone caring for her.

In fact, she reflected, walking with Jim under the creamy yellow globes alongside the Thames, everything had been better since she’d met him.

She ate better. She exercised more. She smiled more. She certainly slept better, since he shared her bed. Even the slimy cardiologist, who’d made Molly feel rather uncomfortable with his unsavoury comments every time he’d chanced to pass her in the corridors, now walked wordlessly past without even lifting his head to look at her.

Everything was better.

She stole a glance at Jim, smiling when he winked at her.

And, of course, the sex... Molly felt her cheeks heat a little.  
  
He had been so patient with her from the very beginning, so kind. He never pushed her to do more than she was comfortable doing. It had taken her a long time to get confident enough even just to lie naked with him in bed. And then, the first time she’d had the courage to finally _do it_ with him... it had been incredible. She'd never known sex could be _incredible_.

And then, last night...

The memory of how Jim had been – a little rougher than usual, grasping her to himself, both hands squeezing her waist almost hard enough to bruise, the muscles of his arms drawn tight like he was in a fight with himself, pupils blown wide with a look that could almost be called furious, but which she knew could not possibly be as he spent himself inside her.

Last night, she’d discovered something about herself, listening to him pant after he’d collapsed next to her on the bed.

She discovered that she secretly liked it when Jim was rough. When he didn’t treat her like glass.

Because it made her feel strong.

It made her forget that she didn't have to be meek and mild little Molly Hooper. She wasn't fragile. For one glorious moment, she could almost believe she was powerful. Certainly powerful enough to make Jim lose control.

“What are you thinking about, darling?” Jim teased her earlobe with his teeth. “Your cheeks are pink.”

“Oh, nothing!" She automatically said, wishing her cheeks would stop betraying her.

Regular sex was still such a novelty for Molly, that she felt an almost irrational fear to talk about it out loud. As though by talking about it, she would jinx it. Or somehow turn Jim off of ever wanting to do it with her again.

“Nothing?” He nibbled the skin under her ear making her hunch a shoulder up and giggle.

“Well, actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask,” Molly deftly turned the conversation away from her private thoughts, “I’ve been wondering if… if you might like to spend Christmas with me?”

Jim was silent.

“What – what are you doing for Christmas?” Molly asked, genuinely curious.

Jim had never mentioned family to her. Never spoken about any brothers or sisters. In fact he never talked about anything to do with his childhood, now that she thought about it.

“Jim?”

But Jim had that look on his face again.

Molly had noticed it more and more this last week. Every time Molly suggested something they could do together for holidays, every time she talked about making plans for next year, or even just mentioned anything that extended past the end of the month… Jim would get that same blank look on his face. And it was just for a fraction of a second, but Molly still saw it.

And each time, she felt an uneasiness grow.

Donning a light-hearted tone, she covered over his silence with a bright, “Well, I’m thinking of getting a real pine tree this year. And decorating it with real candy-canes.” She stole a glance at him. “I – I even started thinking…” She bit her lip, before deciding to dive in head-first. “Well, I was wondering, really, what _you_ might like… for Christmas. As a gift. I mean, if you – if you celebrate Christmas, sorry, I didn’t ask before…”

She stumbled as he turned coldly on her. She was sure she’d never seen his eyes quite so black before.

He blinked, and looked away again. “I don’t do Christmas, Molly.”

“Oh.” She felt like an idiot. “Oh, I’m… I’m so sorry… I mean, I didn’t know…”

Afterwards, she always thought that there’d been something else in that look besides the ice. But then, perhaps it was just wishful thinking. But she’d thought at the time that she’d seen something… a little like… regret.

 “Darling, it’s fine.” Jim seemed to recover his equanimity, stopping to pull her into himself, pressing a kiss to her downcast face. “Look, how about I come visit you sometime, like you’ve been wanting me to do? You haven’t showed me your lab yet, and I know you’ve been wanting to.”

“Oh, will you?” The transformation of her face made Jim draw in a breath. “I mean, no one really comes to see me there – well, except Sherlock, as you know – he's said he’s coming tomorrow, but even if he’s there, he’s not going to mind, not really, and it’ll be so nice for you to see what I do, so long as you promise not to be too put off by Sherlock, or – or …” Her voice dwindled. “Jim… will you really come to see me?”

“Yes, of course,” he promised. “Of course I will.”

She kissed him then. A sweet kiss, soft and warm. Tasting a hint of the red berries they’d shared together for dessert on his lips…

Jim ended the kiss with a graze of his teeth over her bottom lip, and Molly shivered with the anticipation of what that kiss promised.

The ease between them restored, they turned away from the river, and began to stroll the few blocks left between the river and the taxi cab rank in contented silence.

Until they came to St Luke’s Cathedral.

Molly slowed to a stop, looking at the dozens of multi-coloured ribbons tied to the cast iron railings; the wind from the direction of the river behind them making the ribbons flick rapidly against the metal, rustling like dead leaves.

She slid out from under Jim's arm, walking towards them.

Running her hand against the ribbons, she teased one between her fingers.

She looked up at the darkened church as she did, her hair lifting slightly about her shoulders as she stared up at the sharp spires standing like sentinels atop a squatting beast, in the shadows away from the street.

Jim was silent as he came and stood beside her.

“They put them here for the victims,” she said softly. “One ribbon for each victim who suffered...”

Molly traced another one with a finger-tip.

She opened her mouth, wanted to say something to him. Anything. But how do you even start such a thing, how do you begin to order the jumble of words and feelings and pain perching in the shadows of your mouth, but never able to make it past your teeth...

In the end, Molly pressed her lips together. Like she always had.

 

* * *

 

Jim had been momentarily annoyed that she seemed so taken with the ribbons, like a child being distracted by a pretty toy.

But then he saw her face.

Her usually soft eyes were hard in the half-light from the street lamps, her mouth set in a straight line, her fingers now closing over the ribbons tightly.

For one moment, Jim thought Molly was going to speak. 

But then she turned suddenly away and began to stride up the street; Jim had to run to catch up to her.

They caught a cab. She said nothing to him the whole way home. She only wrapped her arms around her chest, and stared out the window.

Moriarty was unprepared for this.

He knew not to try and touch her. The stiff way she was holding herself told him it would be unwelcome.

But this was supposed to be his last night pretending to be Jim from IT. And he'd wanted it to be special. Wanted to give Molly something to remember him by. Something to give her a little joy – because, come on, unlike Sherlock, he wasn't a _complete_ prat. Evil, possibly, but at least he wasn't rude about it.

His Molly had been _so_ useful.

Told Jim so much about Sherlock, even when she wasn't aware that she'd been.

It was only fair he gave her something in return. Something to help her through the inevitably patronising interrogations she would no doubt have to endure once James Moriarty announced who he really was.

When they arrived at her flat, Jim had already resigned himself to accepting that he would be saying goodbye to Molly at her front door.

Tomorrow, Molly would introduce him to Sherlock Holmes, and then it would all be over. One way or another. 

So when she'd yanked him in and slammed the door shut behind her, he was unprepared. When she'd wedged herself between him and the door, when she'd dragged his hand without warning to crush her breasts, when she'd covered his mouth with her own, he was _surprised_.

He tasted salt tears with the precious tart flavour of berries in her mouth, felt her fingers fluttering and plucking at his shirt, felt her moving her thigh between his legs, her hand thrusting down between them to find the zipper on his jeans...

For a brief moment, James Moriarty wondered about finding the ones who had hurt her. The ones who had made her think about tying her own ribbon to the iron railings. Wondered about what it said, that he was even taking an interest in making them pay.

It was one thing to threaten paunchy cardiologists. Though that _had_ been fun.

But it was another thing altogether to divert his attention towards killing people that hadn’t been included in his original plan. Though Moriarty was nothing, if not changeable.  

And then Molly closed ice cold fingers around his cock, and all further thought was shoved aside.

He hissed as she tugged him closer, his cock in her fist, her teeth nipping painfully at his throat.

“ _Molly_!” Jim from IT exclaimed.

 _Mmmmmmm_ , Moriarty had purred inwardly.

But Molly didn't apologise. Or at least, she didn't apologise with words.

She slid down to her knees, never losing her grip on him, and then – _fuck_.

She was taking him all in. Ravenously. Desperately. Eyes closed, mouth turned down, trying to prove something with her eagerness – so different to every other time they'd ever had sex.

But this wasn't sex. 

This was –

“Molly.” His voice was hoarse, breaking. She'd affected him. " _Molly_!"

He had to gently put his hands on her shoulders, push her back until her mouth slid off, and she looked up at him, wet eyes never more beautiful.

“You don't have to do this,” and he wasn't sure if it was Jim from IT saying it or not.

“I do.” She said thickly. “I do, Jim.”

He noted the determined set of her jaw, the way her other hand pushed firmly against his thigh, as though simultaneously pushing him away and holding him in place.

“Why?” He asked, though he knew. “Tell me, Molly."

“I don't want to be a victim anymore," she whispered. 

And something in Moriarty – shifted.

“Then don't be," he told her.

She stared up at him for the longest moment.

And then her face – her _face_ , it crumpled, and he hated her pain, hated how it made him feel and he was snarling, _snarling_ at her.

“Show me you’re not!” And he knew he must’ve looked terrifying, for her eyes widened and she trembled. “ _Show me_!”

Molly’s surge of aggressive desperation was fading, he could see it, and she was breaking, “I – I don’t know how –”

“Take it back!” His voice was definitely _not_ Jim from IT anymore. "Whatever they took from you, take it back!"

Slowly, Molly got to her feet, her eyes never leaving his.

And then she said, "Okay."

He jerked his head, screwing up his face in confusion. "What?"

"I said, okay."  She leant back against the door.

"Don't just say 'okay'!" He snarled again, rolling his eyes in disgust. "Okay is _not_ a word you –"

Molly held her hand up.

"Shut up, Jim," she ordered.

Moriarty stared.

And then, while he watched, she braced herself against the door.

Parted her legs, hitched her dress up with one hand and then slid her other hand down into her knickers.

He watched her lips part as she pressed a finger against herself.

And then slowly, began to stroke herself with her finger.

"This..." she said, with only a slight hitch in her voice, "This is the first thing I'm taking back..."  
  
“Yes,” he hissed, dark eyes glittering,  absolutely rapt.

He made no attempt to cover his cock, still standing thick and proud out of his jeans.

And the realisation, that Jim was turned on by her touching herself obliterated any shame Molly might have been holding onto – shame she’d carried so long she hadn't noticed the weight of until now. Until it started to lift.

Moriarty watched as she bit her lip, the wet sounds of her arousal becoming audible between them.

He saw the momentary hesitation, the nervous look she flicked him, as though expecting him to be disgusted by the noise, by the fact that she was so wet.

He shook his head at her. “Nothing you do is ever wrong with me. I _like_ seeing you touch yourself, Molly Hooper.” He cupped a hand under her chin. "Now show me how you make yourself come."

She ran her finger up and down, up and down, enjoying the silky slickness, exploring in a way she hadn't ever allowed herself to do before. 

She'd never touched herself like this because it was too much like what had happened back when she was – she shut away the black alarm that threatened to derail her enjoyment, and concentrated.

"Good girl," he breathed, lips brushing over hers lightly.

She closed her eyes, rolling her hips in sync with her touch. Parted her legs even wider. Jim accommodated her, one hand still cupping her face, the other cupping around the back of a knee, lifting her leg up to grant her more access.

She moaned. Her mouth was so dry, she had to swallow and lick her lips between harsh breaths.

Jim growled, a low sound of approval, and then suddenly he snatched her wrist, making her cry out in surprise as he jerked her hand to his mouth, wrapping his tongue around her wet fingers, licking her arousal off of her fingertips.

He closed his eyes for a moment as he savoured the taste of her.

When he opened his eyes, Molly was staring at him. Staring at him with a look he'd never seen before on her shy little face... And it was _such_ a look.

It was worse than seeing her in pain.

It was a look of – he couldn't even bear to _think_ of the word.

Because pain didn't make her tilt her head towards him like that. Pain didn't make her eyes heavy with desire. Pain didn't soften her face until she was so unaccountably, so unbearably beautiful, that it made him _feel,_  again, made him ache just to –

"No." He growled, and pushed her back against the door with his body.

"Yes," she argued, even as he hooked up both her legs around his waist, bringing her soaked knickers hard up against his throbbing cock.

" _No!_ " He snarled, harsher than before.

Distraction was something Moriarty craved: boredom was his real nemesis. But  _this_ was too much, this  _feeling! What was he supposed to do with it?_

Molly turned her face up to his. "Fuck me, Jim."

He didn't need to be told twice.

He was already reaching up under her dress to tear away the flimsy fabric of her knickers, his cock straining to drive up inside her, anything to stop her looking like that, anything to stop the _feelings_...

She cried out at the first thrust, but it wasn't a cry of pain or fear.

In fact his viciousness didn’t seem to make Molly afraid at all.

Her eyes closed once more in ecstasy, she locked her ankles behind him, clasped her fingers around his neck, and let herself fall onto him for the second thrust.

He snapped his hips up again and again, finding their new rhythm, pulling her down onto him at the same time as his hips thrust up, grunting in approval as her mouth bloomed open in wordless pleasure.

His arms flexed as he held her up against the door, but she was so light he knew he could hold her like this for hours.

All his senses narrowed in to the exquisite sensation of withdrawing and filling her, over and over again.  
  
It took only a handful of seconds more, and she was exploding around him, her whole body convulsing in a fierce orgasm. He stiffened inside her as she rode it out, his hips jerking unsteadily, and he threw his head back and groaned as he came, pulsing inside her.

Unsteadily, Molly half-collapsed as she slid off; just managing to use the strong wooden door behind her to prop herself up, before he caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

Moriarty lay awake for a long time afterwards.

Molly slept blissfully next to him, sated and exhausted.

He knew what he had to do today. He'd been planning it from the beginning.

Funny though, as he looked up at Molly's ceiling, he'd honestly lost a bit of interest in it.

It had seemed so important before, a face to face meeting with Sherlock Holmes. Look him in the eye. Test his abilities. See if he was clever enough to look through his act.

Now he found the idea bland. Boring, even.

Maybe to make it interesting, he could tease Sherlock a bit. Flirt with him. Oh, he could leave him his 'number'!

Moriarty smiled widely, thinking how amusing it would be, leaving a fake phone number for Sherlock to find.

If Sherlock actually tried to call it, it would be even more amusing, because then he'd discover that it was the phone number of one of Moriarty's murder victims... or even better – his smile became cruel as a particularly diabolical idea took hold –  it could be the phone number of Carl Power's still-grieving parents.

The case that had started Sherlock on his path.

The crime that had set Moriarty on his.

Moriarty revelled in the deliciousness of it. Quite a tempting idea, leaving such an _obvious_ clue right under the great Sherlock's nose. 

Tempting, but also dangerous. 

A mere glance at the number could be sufficient to lead Sherlock to conclude that Jim from IT was a fake.

But in Molly's lab there would be countless weapons easily improvised, he was sure.

Turning his head to look at Molly as she slept, he went over his contingency plans if Sherlock managed to successfully see through him today.

It wouldn't take much.

Disable Sherlock quickly, but leave him alive. After all, they did still have a game to play.

Dispose of his pet. Perhaps in an unusually cruel way, just for the drama of it. Let Sherlock suffer a bit.

And... 

He brushed back a lock of hair that had tumbled forward over Molly's face. Tucked it behind her ear. 

Molly.

He stared at her, studying every last detail of her peaceful expression.

He knew it might be the last time he was ever going to be close enough in real life to see her like this. 

He'd... think up something.

Eventually.

In the beginning, he'd never planned for her to live long past today.

Then he'd changed his mind about that.

Thought that maybe, he could let her live long enough to mourn Sherlock's death. And now... well.

He found he didn't like the idea of her death falling to the back page while Sherlock's would, by the time Moriarty was through with him, be smeared all over the front pages.

No, she deserved better than to die like that, in that prat's vainglorious shadow.

When Molly Hooper died, he promised her silently, it would be spectacular. By his hand, and his hand alone. And until then, he'd see to it no one touched her. She'd be under his protection, no matter if she realised she was or not. He pressed a chaste kiss to her head.

She deserved nothing less.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The music playing for Molly in the restaurant, 'On The Nature Of Daylight', is by the composer Max Richter.
> 
> Stranger Than Fiction (2006) is the movie that uses 'On The Nature Of Daylight' (though quite a few films now use this piece, it's very beautiful). The movie is about a man who starts hearing a disembodied voice narrating his life. I like to imagine the movie reverberated with Molly when she saw it, even if only on a subconscious level: a man living an unremarkable life suddenly threatened by a master narrator deciding and controlling his everyday life and final fate.


End file.
